


Cuckoo and the Nightingale

by MadameThedas



Series: Naoise Halderdotten [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, F/F, Fifth Blight (Dragon Age), Harrowing, Kinloch Hold, Panic Attacks, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameThedas/pseuds/MadameThedas
Summary: We are all forged in the fires of our past and no one knows that better than Amell, whose past has led her to the confines of the Fereldan circle as she risks everything to save her home from a fate worse than death.





	1. After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Naoise is pronounced like nee-sha

Naoise struggled with circle magic. She was used to learning through whispers brushing against her thoughts, through memories of heroes and villains re-enacted by the Gods, who acted as her guide through the land of dreams – not through musty books that crumbled at her touch and under the hawkeyed glare of the templars, who circled them like predators sizing up their prey. Before, magic had always brought her certainty; from the teachings of the Hold spirits to the will of the Gods.

But now uncertainty was all she had. Uncertainty in her mission, which once seemed divine, now seemed like the arrogance of a child desperate to prove their dreamt up worth. Her mission had led her from the safety of her Hold to the confines of the circle where each day felt like it would be her last.

Magic may be taught poorly but fear was not. It was instilled in her with every breath of a templar nearby, a constant reminder of what would happen if she stepped out of line. With every failed spell, every whisper of harrowings and tranquillity, her fear was reinforced. Her fear was a snake coiled tightly around her chest, crushing her lungs and suffocating her as she cowered from the templars, her height drawn low like a weeping willow.

  
She lay in her bunk and listened to the sound of the other apprentices steady breathing. It had been weeks since she had been in solitary confinement and still she felt overwhelmed being surrounded by so many people. She could make out the vague shape of the bunks in the darkness – rows and rows of them. She imagined that this was what a city looked like; the rows of bunks like houses squashed in together and the space between each bunk the narrow winding roads, with the flickering light of candles on bedside tables the streetlamps, guiding the way for the occasional passer-by.

It was a metropolis of mages spanning far beyond the eyes limit and in its vastness, Naoise felt like an animal caught in a snare. Her once imagined streets now seemed like a labyrinth of twisting hedgerows, its thorny branches reaching for her in the darkness, threatening to trap her in its clutches. She felt fear clawing its way up her throat and took deep breaths to calm herself – in and out. In and out. She couldn’t let it get the better of her now, not when so much was at stake. Once the fear had subsided and she no longer saw enemies lurking in the shadows, she listened again to the noises in the dorm.

The dorms were never quiet and at night it was no different. There was always someone snoring, someone up late studying - a flicker of candlelight guiding tired eyes across well-worn pages, the fear of the harrowing as their drive - and the sound of stifled sobs of someone crying into their pillow. The noises changed from night to night but the crying was a constant, whether it was from a child freshly torn from their parents or an apprentice who lost someone to the harrowing.

Each night, Naoise felt glad that she did not have to brave the dorms on her first night at the tower; at least her confinement had afforded her the dignity to cry all she wanted with no one to hear her. And she had. She'd cried until her eyes were swollen and her throat felt ragged. She'd cried until her shaking body collapsed with exhaustion, and when she woke on the cold stone floor, bleary-eyed and shivering, she looked around at the confines of her dismal cell and cried again.

When the noise of crying ceased and the candlelight dimmed, Naoise got up slowly, making sure the rickety bunkbed didn’t creak as she did and crept through the twisting paths between bunks to the door. She listened for templars patrolling the corridors and when she didn’t hear the familiar clanging noise of armour, she opened the door and slipped out into the corridors.

She took a candle stub she had swiped from the chantry earlier from her robes pocket and lit it with a flick of her wrist. She could have easily conjured a ball of flames to guide her, but if whatever she was looking for was as powerful as she thought, she would need all the mana she had.

Naoise crept up the stairs to the second floor and made her way to Irving’s office. He had moved her lessons there as her presence in the library scared the other apprentices. The intrigue of her untoward arrival to the circle and her time in solitary confinement had sparked the imaginations of many and in each retelling, the rumours grew. Naoise didn’t mind the rumours, if anything, they were useful, the other apprentices stayed away from her and she could keep to herself.

The door to Irving’s office opened easily, the old wood creaking on antique brass hinges. He was too trusting, thought Naoise, scoffing at his foolishness. His office was the heart of the circle and the old man never thought to lock the door.

Irving’s office was a grand room full of magical oddities. The dark oak bookshelves were stacked haphazardly with books and scrolls from every nation in Thedas, with poultices and runes acting as bookends. The walls were covered in maps and diagrams and the floors were lined with lush carpets in hues of reds and golds. And there, in the centre of the room sat his desk.

It was made of mahogany, with intricate carvings of Andraste being burned at the stake set into the desktop and covered with a sheet of glass. The image made Naoise shudder. Andraste’s pleading eyes seemed to bore into Naoise, with her face scrunched up in anguish, as if begging her to end her suffering. But it wasn’t the carvings that drew Naoise’s interest to the desk. If Irving’s office was the heart of the circle, his desk was the brain, a focal point of knowledge and power. The drawers set into the desk were locked and if what she was looking for was here, she reckoned it would be in those drawers.

She tore her gaze away from Andraste and got to work, searching his desktop for something to open the locks with. She didn’t worry too much about messing up the countless papers on his desk; Irving’s desk was always chaotic, with empty ink wells, various scrolls and talismans strewn across it. He’d never notice that someone had went through his things. She grabbed a letter opener and jammed it into the lock, twisting it until it gave way.

Naoise didn’t know what exactly she was looking for, just that it must be powerful if it could help her Hold. She was certain it was in the circle somewhere - it had to be. The Lady had never led her astray before and she wouldn’t let her down now. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the birds had led her here, to a place which once belonged to the Avvar.

The place still hummed with their magic, the lingering spells intertwining into a symphony that sang of better times, when magic was revered and not feared. It seemed to pull at her core, as if it sensed the same magic in her veins that the old wards pulsed with.

It didn’t hurt that Kinloch Hold played host to the only circle in Fereldan, and with that title, it was responsible for the safekeeping of an arsenal of artefacts deemed too dangerous to fall into the wrong hands. Naoise could do with a bit of danger on her side. Whether hers were the wrong hands however, was not her concern.

She searched the contents of the first drawer with a methodical touch, inspecting each object for magical properties before setting it down carefully in a neat stack. Irving’s drawers were as cluttered as his desk, filled with letters and diagrams, various magical instruments from past experiments, and an assortment of poultices. The letters she ignored, and she skimmed over the diagrams, trying to make sense of them but to no avail. She finished inspecting a dagger which seemed to be made of ice, chucked it in the pile and started on the poultices.

The bottles had yellowing labels with an elegant script printed on them. Naoise had never understood the Lowlanders' incessant need to mark everything with writing; In the thick of a battle, who would have time to check the labels? Unable to read, Naoise instead uncorked each bottle and sniffed them, and as the pile grew her spirits sank. Most of them were simple healing potions - she could recognise the distinct scent of boiled elfroot and embrium.

Gytha’s poultices were far superior to the weak swill the circle called poultices, but then again, few could brew better potions than Gytha.

Naoise had always watched her brew it as a child and she dwelled on the memory of it: Gytha’s choppy brown hair tied up as she boiled the embrium stalks and crushed dawn lotus seeds, the sweet scent filling the room. Naoise would watch intently while Gytha worked, mentally ticking off each task she completed. Gytha had always let her pour the poultices into the bottles, a task she took on with pride and when she was done, Gytha would gave her a conspiratorial wink and take out her secret ingredient.

The first time Gytha showed it to Naoise, she was sitting up on Gytha’s workbench, her eyes red and puffy and her bottom lip trembling as she held a cloth to a bleeding gash on her forehead.

_“It’s poison!” Naoise gasped, her eyes wide as she stared at the limp bundle of red flowers in Gytha’s hand. She could feel herself backing away instinctively from them. She had been warned against picking these flowers, the smallest dose of the plant could fell a druffalo, let alone a human. In the Hold they called them The Lady’s Gaze because she’d surely set eyes on your soul if you ingested them._

_“And an incredibly potent one at that,” said Gytha, laughing at her scandalised expression. “But the flowers have healing properties if you know how to use them correctly. The dawn lotus seeds neutralise the poison if you use enough of it.”_

_Naoise must have looked unconvinced for Gytha said; “Here, let me show you.” She took a petal, added it to the poultice and downed it._

_Naoise screamed and Gytha erupted in laughter, the noise filling the room._

_“Look,” she said, placing a hand on Naoise’s shoulder. “I’m fine. I’m fine, okay? Now your turn.” She said handing Naoise a bottle._

_Tentatively, she took the bottle and held it to her lips, her confidence wavering._

_“Come on,” said Gytha in a kind voice. “I promise its safe, I took it and I’m okay. You’re a brave girl, I know you can do it.”_

_Naoise felt pride rising in her at Gytha’s words and took a deep breath before swallowing the poultice._

_“Yuck!” She said, pulling a face as she cringed at the bitter taste._

_Gytha laughed at her expression and said, “See! I told you it was safe. Disgusting but totally safe. Now let me see your forehead.”_

_Naoise blinked up at her before remembering the reason Gytha brewed her a healing poultice in the first place. She removed the cloth and Gytha smiled down at her handiwork._

_“Look at that!” she exclaimed. “The bloods clotted already, It'll be good as new in a matter of hours.” She ruffled her hair and rummaged around in her pockets until she found what she was looking for. “Here,” she said, handing her a sweet. “To get rid of the taste.” Naoise gave her a toothy grin and took it greedily, the taste of honey removing the bitterness of the potion._

_“Now don’t be telling your brother my secret ingredient,” said Gytha, with a devious smile. “He’s been trying to work it out for ages and he still has no clue. Deal?”_

_“Deal!” said Naoise, feeling special that Gytha had trusted her with it. She couldn’t wait to brag to Adrian that she knew._

Naoise’s eyes pricked with tears. Gytha had always been good at distracting her when she was upset and she wished more than ever that Gytha was with her now. Ever since she crossed the lake to Kinloch Hold she had been living in a constant state of terror, but in the quiet of Irving’s office, so far removed from the templars gaze, she had nothing to distract her from everything that had happened and every memory she had tried to forget pushed forward.

She put the corks back in the poultices, shoved them out of her line of sight and made her way quickly through the rest of the bottles until she came across what looked to be a bottle of mead. Irving’s poultices may be swill but his mead certainly wasn’t. She took a swig and when the taste hit her tongue she clenched her jaw, her expression hardening. Honey. Just like the sweets Gytha used to get for her when she sold her poultices in the Lowlands. She slammed the bottle on the desk, spilling the mead on some papers and jammed the letter opener into the lock on the second drawer with such brute force that she slashed through the gilding set into the grooves, leaving a jagged scar on the wooden surface.

There was no methodical process as Naoise tore into the second drawer. She chucked the contents on the floor and rifled through them like a scavenger. She broke open the next drawer and the next and went through them again and again, each time growing more desperate as she fired items she deemed useless across the room and slammed the drawers with as much force as she could muster. She chucked a stack of papers to the floor and raised her fist to whack the bottom of the drawer in hopes of finding a secret compartment when she heard birds outside.

She stopped and stood still, her fist held taut, ready to strike. Sunlight had begun to filter through the arrow slit windows - a remnant of when the tower was once a fortress – and filled the room with light. Her fist slackened as she looked around the room and saw the damage she had done:

Papers littered the floor, priceless books lay were they had been chucked in a fit of rage, along with quills, runes, relics, paperweights - whatever she had got her hands on. The room looked like it had been raided and not even Irving himself could be blind to what she did. She snapped out of her daze and quickly started to grab items off the floor, smoothing down crumpled papers and shoving them into drawers along with the rest. When everything was back in the drawers, Naoise sat on the floor, leaning against the desk as she stared through the window.

The narrow windows seemed to mock her. She had trekked through the lowlands, reading the skies for The Lady’s will and now she was trapped in a tower with windows so small she could barely even see the sky, let alone read its warnings. She had been outside only once since she had arrived at Kinloch Hold and fog had shrouded the sky from view. The apprentices had been allowed outside for 10 minutes every day until an apprentice took the opportunity to escape. Naoise both admired his bravery and despised him for it. She had lived her life following the guidance of The Lady and now she was on her own, unable to know if she was doing the right thing and with no way to return home.

Home… With the hardships of circle life, the comforts of home seemed like a hazy memory belonging to someone else. She thought of the Hold: the smell of the campfire at night when everyone would gather around it to sing and tell tales, with ale to warm their stomachs. The Augur Sigrid, wise in her council and kind in her teaching, her brothers, both strong and proud and her father, with his kind eyes and doting smile. She wondered what they thought had become of her. She knew what they thought of what she was doing, her brothers thought her a fool and her father just wanted her home safe.

She remembered the last time she saw her brothers; Conrad’s sword at her throat blocking her path with Adrian at his side, his shield drawn.

_“Go home Naoise, before your foolish fantasies are the end of you!” Commanded Conrad, the blade in his hand steady. It was still stained black from the oil slick blood of the darkspawn._

_“If I don’t try I’ll die anyways,” retorted Naoise, her voice resolute as she stood tall, her chin jutted out as she stared at him. “We’ll all die!” She shouted, her voice cracking._

_“You’re nothing more than an arrogant child playing hero!” he spat at her with gritted teeth. “You’re a selfish prick who’d leave us to defend the hold while you watch the skies!” his glare was piercing as he stared her down._

_Naoise stood still, as if rooted to the forest floor. Her eyes never left his blade as she tried to steady her breathing. She could not afford to show any signs of weakness now._

_“Conrad! Do not insult the Gods when we need them now more than ever," cut in Adrian, always the voice of reason._

_Conrad faltered and Naoise’s eyes left the blade to look at him._

_As she looked up at his face contorted with anger, she felt like she was seeing him for the first time. His dark brown eyes were bloodshot and his long black hair that was usually plaited hung greasy in straggly clumps matted with dried blood. His face was marred with jagged red scars, the skin taut below his right cheekbone where the puckered scar tissue pulled at the corner of his mouth._

_Naoise could hardly bear to look at him – if these creatures could do this to her brother, their strongest warrior, what hope did they have? She burned with anger and wanted nothing more than to slaughter every single one of them. Conrad was a young man, but in that moment, with his shoulders hunched in defeat, he looked so old. So tired. His face crumpled and his hands trembled as great sobs racked through him, his anger from before replaced by pure grief._

_Naoise darted back before he could nick her throat and watched silently as her brother dropped his sword and bawled, the noise causing the roosting birds to take flight with indignant squawks._

_“She’s dead,” he cried. “She’s dead! They tore her from limb to limb like she was nothing and you think you can save us all by yourself? We need you here! If you were with her when it happened then maybe she – maybe she – I couldn’t save her!” he dropped his sword and covered his face as he choked on his sobs, gasping for air._

_With his words, the image of Gytha’s broken body filled Naoise’s mind and her stomach lurched. Conrad was not exaggerating when he said she was torn apart. Naoise could still picture Gytha’s broken body lying in the muck._

_Her face had looked like it was collapsing in on itself, with her skull caved in where it had been crushed, the jagged edges of her skull a stark white against the rancid peeling flesh. Her grey skin sagged on her cheekbones and her glassy brown eyes stared up unfocused at Naoise, devoid of the merry glint that they had always held._

_Naoise was stricken by the wrongness of it all. There lay her dearest friend and her body had been left to rot like the gutted carcass of an animal. She couldn’t bear to look at her and instead focused on the shattered poultice bottles that were secured to Gytha’s belt. The poultices had spilled onto the muck and from where it had touched, flowers had sprouted from the ground. The sight of the familiar flowers had caused the tears welling in Naoise’s eyes to spill over her cheeks in fat droplets as she wailed like an animal in pain. The Lady’s Gaze. Gytha’s secret ingredient. And Gods above she hoped The Lady turned her gaze on her._

_Naoise felt powerless as she watched Conrad. She had never seen him cry before. He always seemed so strong, so stoic in the face of danger that she had always thought he couldn’t cry._

_The image of Gytha’s body, still so fresh in their minds, seemed to take form on the forest floor between them and made the distance between them feel infinite, isolating them in a prison of their grief._

_Naoise trudged towards Conrad and carefully placed a hand on his shoulder. A gash on his face had split open and she dabbed at it awkwardly with her sleeve and waited until his breathing steadied._

_“You did all you could for Gytha, those creatures are stronger than anything we’ve ever fought - there was nothing you could do.” She said._

_It seemed so trifling to say, so insignificant in the face of his grief. But there was nothing more to say. No petty words offered up could appease his guilt. Only time would smooth the rough edges of his grief so it would no longer cut him._

_“You didn’t hear her scream” he said, his voice barely a whisper amidst the rustling of leaves. “The sound haunts me and when I think of her it’s all I can hear.”_

_“Her death hurts us all Conrad,” said Adrian, as he dropped his battered shield and pulled Conrad into a hug. Naoise stepped back and couldn’t help feeling relieved that Adrian had intervened. Conrad turned to sob into Adrian’s shoulder._

_“We all loved her,” Adrian continued, his eyes filling with tears. “She was like a sister to me. But all we can do is survive. Survive and kill every last one of those foul creatures to protect those left. Gytha was brave, she died defending us and if we give up now her sacrifice would mean nothing’.”_

_“I really loved her,” Conrad said, his voice muffled in the refuge of Adrian’s shoulder. “I loved her more than I thought was possible.” There was no fight left in his voice. He sounded empty._

_“Then you know what must be done,” said Adrian purposely._

_Conrad looked up, his face looked almost calm despite his swollen eyes. He took a deep breath, picked his sword up from where he dropped it and strode over to Naoise._

_“You.” He said, pointing his sword at her, his voice holding the authority of a King. “Do you truly believe you can put an end to this?”_

_“I do,” said Naoise, her voice steady and unyielding._

_“Then go,” he said. “Go and do what you think you must.” Conrad sheathed his sword and stalked off back to the Hold. Adrian watched him go then turned his gaze on Naoise._

_“Here,” he said, his voice gruff as he held out his hammer._

_It was a weapon like no other, with its bronze surface adorned with silver filigree. Cruel spikes cut through the design, their sharp points menacing, and the handle was shaped like intertwining snake. Each scale was prominent and garnets were embedded in the metal to form the snakes eyes. This was no simple weapon, but a weapon for heroes of legend._

_Naoise stared at him, her mouth agape. Adrian’s hammer was his most prized possession - he forbade anyone else to touch it let alone wield it. It was a source of great pride for him and after enough ale he’d recount the tale of how he had won it which involved a goat, no less than three duels and two elopements. Naoise was certain it was bullshit but Adrian could make anything sound plausible._

_“Don’t look so shocked,” said Adrian. He allowed himself a small smile and the gesture seemed out of place on his face after the carnage of the past weeks. “You know your way about it; I saw you practising with it once when I came back from a hunt. You were way too skilled with it for it to be your first time using it.” Naoise’s face flushed red at being caught out._

_"Go on take it,” he continued. “My arm’s getting sore.”_

_She took it wearily, all too aware of Adrian’s blue eyes on her. She was used to taking it in secret and it felt wrong to be holding while he was watching her._

_“Are you sure? But it’s…”_

_“Not worth the auld man killing me for if anything happens to you. Use it well and when you come home you can return it.”_

_“Thank you,” said Naoise, feeling tears prickle her eyes. “I’ll be home soon – I’ll put an end to this!”_

_“You’ve always been arrogant,” Adrian said with a humourless laugh. “I hope for our sake you’re right.” He turned to go then cast her one last glance. “Oh, and Naoise…” he seem to consider his words “Stay safe, wherever your path leads you.”_

_“You too,” she said, but Adrian didn’t look back._

_Naoise’s heart felt heavy as she watched him limp off, dragging his right leg behind him slightly as he went. He had been wounded with an arrow during the fighting and it had never got a chance to heal. Their meagre forces were overwhelmed by the darkspawn and they could not afford to fight without Adrian, regardless of his injuries._

_Everyday, their ranks were filled with the injured, their wounds bandaged up as they tried to take out as many darkspawn as they could before they bled out. There was no winning against the darkspawn. They could only hope their deaths would slow the onslaught. A generation of proud Avvar warriors had been reduced to cannon fodder. The very thought made Naoise’s blood boil._

_When Adrian’s retreating form was out of sight, Naoise began the trek to the lowlands, resolute in her conviction to rid them of the darkspawn._

 

*~*~*~*

  
The desk dug into Naoise’s back as she tugged the neckline of her robe to reveal a livid scar that ran from her right collarbone to just below her heart. Naoise thought it looked like a centipede, with its body the rope of angry red scar tissue and the legs the jagged edges. The battles had left a mark on them all and she was no different.

She remembered the hot, searing pain as a darkspawn slashed her open, the smell of blood and rot around her as she hit the ground. Naoise had lain there for what felt like hours as the battle waged on above her; the sound of clashing metal filling her ears as she felt the hot blood spurting from her chest. She had tried her best to heal it - desperately reciting incantations between gasping breaths. But It wasn’t enough, she had lost too much blood. Naoise held her hands to her wound in one last ditch attempt to prolong the inevitable. She felt the blood gush between her fingers as she closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of the rain pelting her face while she waited for death.

And yet death did not come. She sank into unconsciousness, the pain leaving her and in the darkness, she felt nothing but peace. She felt a soothing presence and in that moment, she felt ready to let go, to join The Lady’s side.

And then she had awoken – Not by The Lady’s side or in the cold of the battlefield but somewhere warm. It was not the gushing heat of blood, but the warmth and crackle of an open fire.

Naoise opened her eyes to find herself in the Thane’s halls. Ever since the fighting had started it had been converted into a makeshift infirmary. Bear pelts had been placed atop dried heather as makeshift beds around the open fireplace and those who had left the fighting with minor wounds were left to tend to the dying. Naoise peered up through bleary eyes to see Sigrid changing her bandages. Her thick brows were knit in concentration and seemed to cast shadows on her bruised eyes, making them appear hollowed out. She looked haunted. Her round face looked gaunt with a greyish sheen to it and the lines around her eyes looked more prominent than ever.

Naoise tried to speak but could only make a raspy choking sound. Sigrid flinched and rushed to get Naoise a class of water. She downed it gratefully and tried to speak again

_“What happened?” Naoise croaked, her voice weak. The pain was unbearable and she clawed at the bandages trying to get at the wound._

_“Shh.” Sigrid said softly, pining Naoise’s arms by her sides. “You were injured, but you’re going to be okay.”_

_With her words the memories flooded back. The smell of blood, the clashing of steel, the slash of metal through flesh and searing pain._

_“I was stabbed!” Naoise stammered, her voice shrill. “It stabbed me… It stabbed me! I – I was bleeding I -“ her voice cracked and her body shook as she gasped for air._

_“You’re okay, you’re safe now. Shh. Shh – you’re safe,” crooned Sigrid as she stroked her hair and pulled her into a hug. Naoise clutched onto her for dear life, her shaking fists clenching the fabric of Sigrid’s shirt._

_“How did I survive?” she asked once she had calmed down enough to speak. “I was dying and then… I felt something. It went dark and it – I think it saved me.”_

_Sigrid smiled softly at her and said, “It was your spirit guide child, it used its energy to heal you.”_

_Naoise heard its whispers brush against her mind and knew it to be true. She could feel it beside her heart, a feeling of warmth that cradled her heart. She tried to reach out to it, but its presence was little more than a wisp._

_“Be careful with your magic,” said Sigrid, as if reading her mind. “It’s weak, it wouldn’t take much to do it in.”_

_“I thought I was done for.” Naoise confided. “I truly thought The Lady had come for me.”_

_“Now don’t be saying things like that,” scoffed Sigrid, but Naoise could see she was shaken. “The Lady wouldn’t take you before your time. You have a long life ahead of you Naoise – you won’t be rid of me that easily.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself of this._

_“Now take this, it’s a sleeping draught – I may not be up to your Gytha’s standards but…well,” she wiped her eyes and continued. “It’ll do the job just fine – drink up!”_

_Naoise retched at the taste and took one last look at Sigrid before sinking into oblivion._

Naoise’s fingers traced her scar and came to rest at her heart. The space around her heart felt cold, as if it had been hollowed out and in a way it had. The circle had broken more than just her. No longer would whispers brush against her mind and no longer would it protect her.

She had nothing left. She was utterly alone. When she arrived, she had been stripped of her old clothes and with them, all that remained of who she once was. They’d taken Adrian’s hammer too and she’d mentally scolded herself for not having the sense to hide it before entering the blighted tower. For all she knew, it could be wielded by a templar now and the thought made her blood boil.

She had been gone for months with nothing to show for it and had no way home – If she even had a home to return to. For all Naoise knew, the darkspawn had turned the land black and everyone she loved had died thinking she abandoned them. The only thing left to tie her to her past was her scar, which even now caused her pain.

On her worst nights, when having to live in the circle for another day seemed unbearable, she’d focus on the pain and imagine her brothers felt the same pain in their scars. It made her feel connected to them – as if an invisible rope tied them together. It grounded Naoise and reminded her of her duty to them, to the Hold. She would give anything to see them again - even if it was just to argue with them.

Naoise’s eyes welled up with tears and her body shook with every sob. She cried for her home, her family, for Gytha – who she’d never see again and for her spirit guide, who had been her only companion on her quest. She hugged her knees to her chest as she cried and her breathing became erratic. The cluttered room became suffocating and she closed her eyes as the walls closed in around her.

She was trapped here – There was no escape – she would die here and no one would know. Her windpipe seemed to constrict as she gasped for air between sobs and she felt a crushing weight on her chest. She tried to speak but her screams died in her throat.

_Breathe. She told herself, just breathe – in and out – in and –_

“Um – Hello?”

Naoise froze. Her heart raced as she peeked over the desk to see a templar standing in the doorway. _Fuck!_ She thought as she ducked back down. She wiped her face with her sleeve furiously.

“I uh - I can see you, you know.” Said the templar not unkindly.

There was nothing for it then. Naoise stood up with as much composure she could muster, ignoring the feeling of pins and needles in her legs. Her mind raced with what he would do to her for breaking into Irving’s office.

She knew how it looked: the apostate skulking around the circle after curfew. The templar would think she was practicing forbidden magic. She could almost feel the white-hot pain of the sun that marked the tranquil being branded on her forehead.

The templar stood straight with his chest puffed out. Naoise felt exposed as she stared at the templar insignia emblazoned on his chest plate. The flimsy silk of her circle robes would do nothing to protect her. His gauntleted hand brushed against the hilt of the sword sheathed at his left hip. Naoise’s stomach lurched at the gesture.

“What are you doing here?” He asked as he moved towards her.

Unable to stop herself, Naoise cringed from him, backing into the wall. Every muscle in her body tensed as she waited for him to strike her.

The templar stopped, a concerned expression flitting across his face and held his hands out like he was surrendering.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in a soft voice, as if he was scared of spooking her. “I just need to know what you’re doing.”

Naoise dared to look up at him. He was startlingly young. Most of the templars were at least in their thirties and yet he looked no older than she did. His hair was a mass of blonde curls and his eyes were a light brown. He was smaller than her – but so were most men – with a lank frame and his templar armour seemed to swamp him. Naoise felt herself calm down as she took in his appearance. There was nothing cruel about his expression, something Naoise had grown accustomed to seeing in templars. He had the enthusiastic air of a new recruit – desperate to learn and eager to prove himself, which reminded Naoise of a puppy.

“Well?” he said pointedly.

Naoise startled and glanced around the room frantically as she racked her brain for an excuse. Her head was pounding and she felt overwhelmed with a bone-deep feeling of fatigue.

“Well I was – I… I can’t read.” Naoise said, her voice trembling as her eyes caught on the mahogany bookshelf. “So I thought I could teach myself - but it’s hopeless!” She said with a huff.

“Oh,” said the templar. “Why didn’t you go to the library? Um – it’s just that – surely it would be easier to learn there with all the… books.” He trailed off, blushing as he scratched the nape of his neck.

“I was embarrassed,” Naoise said, her voice growing stronger. She stared down at her feet as she spoke. “I didn’t want anyone to see me struggling in the library.” She looked up to see him staring at her with a slight frown, furrow lines marring his brow. Naoise felt her blood run cold.

“I should be getting back to the dorms-“ Naoise began hurriedly. She paused, her voice catching on her words. She had been so scared she had forgotten about her voice, more specifically her accent. It was so far removed from the lowlanders’ accents and if the circle knew from where she hailed their suspicions about her would only grow.

“I’ve bothered you enough for one night.” Naoise said, focusing on mimicking the templars accent. His furrowed brow smoothed like a freshly pressed sheet.

She shuffled to the door, giving the templar a wide birth and almost tripping on the hem of her robe in her haste to get away from him. Naoise was almost at the door when –

“Wait!” The templar blurted out. Naoise stopped. She barely dared to breathe. She closed her eyes as dread closed in on her.

“I could teach you,” said the templar. “I mean – to read.”

Naoise spun around to face him, her mouth gaping as she stared at him. She searched his face for traces of deception but she could find none, in fact, he looked sincere.

“I can read,” he said, his tone slightly defensive as he took in her baffled expression. “The chantry requires all recruits to be able to read and write. The children are probably better but I could teach you the basics – that’s if um… you would like me to of course.” He fidgeted from foot to foot.

“Okay then.” Said Naoise, sounding dazed. The words tasted bitter in her mouth. She felt like the Gods were playing a practical joke on her. Being punished would have been preferable to this. Punishment she knew, she had faced plenty in the circle, but this was unchartered waters.

“Great!” said the templar as his face broke into a blinding smile, which he hid by rubbing his nose. “I’ll go get a book from the library.”  


_Just great._ She thought as she watched him go. _How could this possibly go wrong._

  
*~*~*~*

  
The templar had found a nook in the library for them to sit, guarded from the eyes of prowling templars on patrol. The alcove was dim, the sunlight blocked by the bookshelves, which rose towards the ceiling like trees stretching their branches to meet the sun.

Before this moment, Naoise had never realised just how far removed templars were from mages. Though they kept vigilance over mages at all times, it was always from a distance - observing but never interacting. From afar they were like statues carved in the image of warriors from legend. All sculpted muscle and sharp lines, their stance imposing as they towered over their charges, immortalised in their prime.

This was different. Naoise sat across from the templar, her legs squashed against his under the rickety table as his greaves dug into her. She could see the steady rise and fall of the templar’s chest and it struck her how human he was. This was no foreboding figure of legend, but a boy of flesh and blood. His face wasn’t smooth like marble, but pocked with acne, with the wispy hairs on his chin a pale imitation of a beard.

The templars appearance calmed Naoise and when the sight of his sheathed sword at his side became too much for her, she focused on such details – the dark circles under his eyes, the tips of his ears a rosy red – and felt her breathing calm and her heartrate steady.

The templar had brought a book to read to her, "I know its a children's book," he said apologetically, "but I thought it would be easier."

He placed the book between them and started to read to her. Naoise had to admit he was a good teacher. He took his time to go over the alphabet with her and sounded it out, writing out words in bold letters as he went. It was _almost_ nice. Almost. Every so often he turned a page too fast or spoke too loud and she would stiffen, paralysed with fear.  


He told the tale of the Queen’s handmaiden, who spotted a dragon in the sky when washing one of her mistress’s dresses. It reminded Naoise of the tales the Skald would spin as they gathered around the campfire. When she closed her eyes she could almost pretend she was back home and that the heat of the candle, that flickered amber behind her eyelids, really was the campfire. She dropped all pretences of wanting to learn how to read and instead focused on the templars story as she clung to her memories of home.

“The handmaiden ran to the Queen to tell her what she saw, panting as she dashed up the steps to the Queen chambers and found her sitting at her dresser as she got ready for the ball,” read the templar. “When she told her what she saw the Queen simply laughed and said, ‘Your eyes mislead you my dear, for dragons have not been seen in this land in centuries. I will not send my soldiers on a fool’s errand.’ But the handmaiden knew what she saw and knew the devastation the dragon would cause if it was allowed to live. She petitioned the knights in the realm, fabled warriors of legendary strength, to help her, but like the Queen, they too laughed. She turned away distraught, when one of the knights approached her. He was the youngest of the knights and was barely a man. ‘I believe you, for I saw the dragon too,’ he said and pledged himself to her cause. Together they trekked the treacherous mountains where the dragon had made its lair. The dragons lair was paved in the bones of its victims and the handmaiden felt her stomach lurch at the sight. And there, among the bones, lay the dragon. The young knight charged at the dragon and pierced its side with his blade. The creature let out a rumbling roar as it hissed fire at the knight, burning him to cinders. The handmaiden let out a ragged cry and the dragon turned to face her. The handmaiden had no soldiers to protect her like the Queen, and she was no warrior of legend like the knights. She was simply a handmaiden and in the tattered uniform of the Queen’s servants she felt powerless. The handmaiden bowed her head in resignation when the glint of metal caught her eye. There among the bones lay a blade like no other, forged from the strongest of metals. The handmaiden grabbed it and charged at the dragon, a hot blast of fire singeing the side of her face as the dragon spat fire at her.”

Naoise opened her eyes and stared at the templar, as she listened to each word with rapt attention. The templar seemed to notice this shift and smiled at her before continuing the story.

“With the sword in her hand, the handmaiden felt unstoppable as she pierced the dragon’s side. The dragon roared in pain and unhinged its massive jaws, sinking its teeth into her arm. She shrieked and dropped her sword which fell with a clatter. The dragon slackened its grip and she jerked her arm out of its grasp and fell to the ground. The handmaidens sword lay just out of her reach. If she could get to it then maybe, just maybe –“

Ding-Dong

Naoise jumped at the sound of the curfew bells echoing through the tower. She scrambled to her feet and blew out the candle as she gathered up the parchment and shoved it into her pocket. She had to get back to the dorms before anyone noticed she was missing. The templar seemed to share her alarm as he bolted up from the chair and slammed the book shut.

They stood still for a moment their breathing hushed as they reacquainted themselves with their surroundings. The templar spoke first, spurring them to action.

“Come,” said the templar. “I’ll accompany you to your room.”

Naoise simply nodded and they walked side by side to the apprentice dormitories. His clanging steps echoed throughout the hallway and Naoise’s stomach churned at the sound. They walked in silence until Naoise built up the nerve to speak.

“How does it end?” she asked softly.

“How does what end?”

“The story, does she defeat the dragon? Is her quest worth it?” Naoise stared at him with pleading eyes.

The templar seemed to consider her a moment before answering. “Yes,” he said with a smile. “And when she returns to the village she is hailed a hero.”

“Good,” said Naoise, her voice firm.

They came to a stop outside the apprentice dorms and Naoise breathed a sigh of relief. She went to open the door when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Wait,” said the templar. “I uh – I didn’t get your name.”

“Amell,” Naoise lied. There had been an Amell once, but she had no use for a name anymore.

“Amell,” he said, as if weighing the word on his tongue. “I want you to have this.” He held out the book. She took it cautiously and traced her fingers over the gold script.

“Thank you…”

“Cullen,” he supplied.

“Thank you Cullen,” said Naoise with a small smile which felt foreign to her face and Cullen blushed. “I’ll see you around.”

Naoise opened the door to the dormitory and was met with the bustle of circle life as apprentices got ready for the day ahead. She slipped in unnoticed and criss-crossed through the maze of bunkbeds until she came to hers. She climbed into bed, hoping to get a few hours of sleep before lessons began.

Naoise traced the cover of the book one last time before stuffing it under her mattress. Though she had not found what she was looking for, she had come across something much rarer; an ally of sorts in the templars. She smiled to herself as she snuggled under the duvet. Cullen could prove quite useful to her. Naoise drifted off to sleep with the thought of her mission and the handmaiden, who had defeated all the odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be a oneshot but I decided to expand it. I've got a good few chapters outlined so I'm planning to update often.
> 
> Thanks for reading and any comments or kudos are greatly appreciated!


	2. A Rude Awakening

Naoise was surrounded. The darkspawn were coming at her from every angle, grabbing for her in the dark. She struggled to get free and tried to stand, only to trip as her legs caught in a trap from the depths of the darkness that dragged her down with it. Naoise screamed as the world fell away, her arms flung in front of her as she braced herself for impact.

But the fall never came. Naoise choked as something grabbed the neckline of her robes and pulled her upright as a claw clasped around her mouth, its iron grip bruising her jaw as the metal dug into her skin. _Metal_.

Darkspawn were creatures of rot and disease - not metal. Naoise used the feeling of the cool metal against her skin to anchor herself to reality and shake the last remnants of sleep from her mind as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

She was in the dorms; two templars stood in front of her, while a third pinned her arms behind her back to restrain her. She caught sight of her duvet pooled around her feet and realised that it had been the so-called trap she had been entangled in. Naoise’s fear turned to shame at the sight of it and she berated herself for being so foolish. She was safe from the darkspawn and still she couldn’t escape them in her dreams. _Pathetic_ , she thought as her heartrate slowed and she shivered from the cold sweat that caused her hair to stick to the nape of her neck.

“Now will you behave or will we have to carry you?” drawled the third templar. The feeling of his breath against her ear made Naoise’s skin crawl.

  
Naoise knew that voice, with its crisp syllables and clear cut accent. It was the voice of her tormenter, the voice of the man that haunted her still, in both her dreams and waking hours, the voice of the one that severed her spirit bond. _Greaves._

The name hit her like a blow to the chest, knocking the air from her lungs and any relief she had felt from learning she was safe from the darkspawn dissipated and was replaced by pure unadulterated dread.

Naoise’s pulse hammered in her ears as adrenaline coursed through her veins. She should have known he’d come for her; Greaves was not a man to take defeat lying down. Her head pounded as she imagined what he’d do to her. Was he here to kill her? Naoise wouldn’t put it past him. He’d drag her off to some hidden crevice and when the deed was done he’d haul her broken body to the top of the tower and throw her out the window. Mages had jumped from those windows before, no one would question it. Or maybe he’d claim he had killed her to prevent her escaping; with his thugs backing him up, they’d probably give him a medal. Another medal.

“Come now,” said Greaves. His voice was light and airy, as if he had suggested to take a stroll outside and admire the scenery, not shank her in some dark hallway.

  
He tightened his grip on her bound wrists and pushed her forwards with a jolt, and with that, Naoise’s fear turned to rage. She did not trek to the Lowlands and leave her family behind to be corralled like cattle to her death. And she certainly did not persevere through confinement and beatings for some overdressed Lord’s son to kill her in some childlike revenge fantasy. She had survived the darkspawn and every challenge the Lowlands had thrown at her so far; She was Naoise, daughter of Halder, a Skywatcher that had given everything to fulfil The Lady’s will, and a proud Avvar warrior of Falcon-Peak Hold. She would not bow down and offer her throat to him.

Naoise let out a feral scream and twisted her arms out of his grasp. She whipped around and made a run for it; barrelling through two templars and criss-crossing through the rows of bunks to get to the door. She had no plans and nowhere to run. In that moment all that mattered was getting away.

The door was in sight, like a lake in the middle of the desert, when one of her pursuers landed a blow to the back of her head with a crack that echoed through the cavernous room.

Naoise collapsed and hit her head off the floor with a sickening crunch. The world seemed to spin as her head lolled to the side, and as the templars approached, she shot one last glance at the door, which, like a mirage, had started to fade from sight as her vision blurred.

She could just about make out the outline of Greaves as he loomed over her, his calm voice rang with a hint of amusement as he said, “They never do behave.”

As Greaves and his thugs hauled her up, Naoise’s world went dark.

*~*~*~*

Everything hurt. Naoise’s head pounded with such a force she felt like her head would split open and as she regained consciousness, she bit down on her cheek to stop herself from crying. She was curled up on the floor in a foetal position when she heard a voice ring out from somewhere above her.

“I trust your men were asked to fetch Miss Amell, and not to bludgeon her to death in her bed Greagoir,” remarked Irving dryly.

Naoise tried to make sense of his words – Fetch? What was going on and why was Irving involved? But the pain drowned out all other thoughts and left her alone with the agony of the blow. She gritted her teeth and focused on the feeling of the cold stone against her cheek as her eyes stung with tears.

“My men did what was necessary, Irving,” said Greagoir with an exasperated sigh. “That necessity was determined the moment your apprentice tried to make a run for it!”

“I’m sure that if I appeared at your bedside, Greagoir, that you would run too,” retorted Irving with a wry tone that did nothing to hide his irritation.

At the sound of muffled laughter, Naoise turned to see Cullen standing with a gauntlet-encased hand covering his mouth as he tried to play his laugh off as a cough. His sword was no longer sheathed at his hip but balanced by the hilt in the crook of his arm. His glance caught hers and as he blushed, she turned away and closed her eyes as her blood ran cold. It was clear where his loyalties lay; she would not be weak in the face of petty kindness again.

Naoise heard approaching footsteps and blinked up at the figure through swollen eyes to find Irving looming over her. He crouched beside her and placed what Naoise guessed was supposed to be a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Where are you hurt child?” Asked Irving, and the softness of his voice broke something in Naoise. He had no right to pretend he cared – not after all he had done. The hollowness in her chest became more noticeable and she swallowed as she tried to smother the sensation.

Naoise made a feeble gesture towards her head and Irving cupped it gently as he muttered an incantation. Naoise sighed in relief as the pain left and was replaced by a cool breeze. She muttered a begrudging thanks before she rose to her feet.

With a clear mind, Naoise surveyed her surroundings. She was in a small room, with a peaked ceiling dissected into four parts by the rafters above, which gave it the impression of petals enclosed on a rosebud, with the intricate gilding adorning the ceiling the veins. Naoise imagined it blooming – its petals unfurling to reveal the sky above, the feel of the wind on her face… Gods she missed home.

From the windows she could see the lake – so dark in the night that it seemed to mix with the sky above, lap gently against the shore as the moon shone on the water’s surface. She had to be at the top of the tower. The Lowlands lay stretched out beyond her and yet in its vastness, it felt more out of reach than ever. Something heavy settled in the pit of her stomach at the sight and she turned her back to the view as she threw her shoulders back and steeled herself for whatever was to come.

“If you’re quite done fussing over her Irving, I suggest we get back to the matter at hand,” said Greagoir. “After all, it was you that insisted on this in the first place.”

Dread crawled its way up Naoise’s spine as she recounted the last few weeks in her head, scanning for a reason for such a clandestine confrontation. Had Irving figured out it was her that broke into his office? No – he couldn’t have. She had taken nothing that could steer his accusations towards her. Unless…Cullen! He had practically caught her in the act. He could’ve easily relayed his suspicions to Irving.

She turned to face him, scanning his expression with a glare for any sign of deceit, but she could find none. The corners of his mouth twitched into a half smile before he attempted to adapt the austere composure of his companions, which instead made him appear almost comical.

But what other reason was there? This had to be a trial. They would declare her guilt and punish her – maybe she’d be confined again. Greaves would love that. She wondered if he had volunteered to fetch her, insisted that he would partake in her demise. He stood beside Greagoir with a placid smile on his face. His wounds had healed quickly with every healing mage in the circle at his disposal. All that remained of his injuries was a burn scar on his right cheek that had faded to a light pink.

A thought dawned on Naoise then, so crushing in its weight that it made her feel faint. _But confinement is not the only thing to fear in the circle._

They could make her tranquil – after all, why wouldn’t they? She was a deviant in their eyes, an outlying variable so volatile to the structure of Kinloch Hold that her very presence could offset the integrity of the entire circle.

She stifled a cry as Peters led her to the centre of the room. She didn’t protest; there was no point. As the Knight-Captain, Peters’ presence sealed her fate. Naoise searched inside of her for something to cling on to: a memory, a thought, a feeling – anything to savour for one last time before her mind was lost and her body became a pawn. But she felt empty. She had nothing left to cling to.

“Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him,” boomed Greagoir, his voice echoing through the chamber. “And from the prophet’s words the circle formed; a refuge for mages to practice their magic in accordance with Andraste’s will. If you are to serve your fellow men and Andraste herself, you must be able to control the gift she has bestowed on you, for if you can’t, it will consume you and everyone else that lies in your path. That is why we have devised the Harrowing and that is why you must prove your abilities as a mage.”

“You will enter into the fade and face a demon,” supplied Irving. “There you will be called upon to defeat it with only your abilities as a mage to protect you. It is a perilous task and while its existence is regrettable –“ Irving cut off at the sound of laughter.

Naoise couldn’t help it, the relief was dizzying – almost intoxicating and laughter billowed out of her between wheezes and hiccups as she wiped the tears from her eyes with her sleeve. _This_ was their dreaded Harrowing? This was what had hounded her every waking hour?

Sigrid had always sworn she was raised in the land of dreams and in a way she had been. It was there she had been nurtured, where her unbridled powers had been honed into both a weapon and a shield. The land of dreams was her second home and Naoise longed for nothing more than home.

“If you fail, said Greagoir sharply, “have no doubts Amell – you will perish. We will not suffer an abomination for your wellbeing. The Harrowing upholds the protection of every mage in this circle, it is no laughing matter.”

“I’m sure the child understands the severity of what’s at stake Greagoir.” Said Irving with a pointed look aimed at Naoise. He turned to her and added. “The fade has no master, each mage that visits it is but a hostage caught up in the complexities of its ever changing rules, forever at risk from powers we can never hope to understand. You would do well to remember that child.”

“She must pass by her own merits Irving,” said Greagoir.

Naoise knew the danger that lay in the land of dreams, but she was no hostage in it. To her, the land of dreams was freedom itself; a sanctuary of the Gods’. She would pass their test and she would prove herself in the face of their doubts.

She approached the pedestal with a confidence she had not felt since before her arrival to the circle and cupped the lyrium in her hands, admiring the electric static that shot through every nerve in her body at its touch. She sank to the floor as it overpowered her and a single phrase played in her mind; _I’m going home_.


	3. Confinement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for physical abuse and torture.

Entering the land of dreams was like breaching the surface of a stormy sea after drowning – she could finally breathe again. She took a deep breath, savouring how the cool air felt in her lungs and opened her eyes – or maybe she had simply remembered she had eyes, to take in her surroundings. It was so similar to the land of dreams she was used to, with its jagged obsidian cliffs that pierced the sky above, which was stained an acid green and the winding pathways, with a destination shaped by will alone. 

  
But at the same time, it was completely foreign to her. The paths were dotted with sculptures of Andraste, some as a blessed prophet and others as a tyrant that called for destruction with her flaming sword that burned with flames as cold as ice. Sculptures of dragons were also entrenched in the rocky terrain. Some towered in glorious majesty, others loomed over her in ominous shadows, jaws threatening to punish any wanderer that came too close.  It was a boiling pot of fear and anger, pious restraint and holy hubris and it threatened to bubble over.

  
But what unnerved Naoise the most was the birds. They moved, but they didn’t _fly_ as birds should – their wings were frozen in place as they glided, so stationary that they could only have come from a mind that had never seen birds fly. 

  
Naoise wondered if a spirit had taken them from the dreams of an apprentice that had been so young when they were stripped from their parents, they had no memories of birds in flight. The sight of the hollowed out birds chilled her, they were sick caricatures that were as blasphemous as the blighted birds sickened by the darkspawn. 

  
The birds, so like puppets on a string, reminded her that she was alone. Her chest felt hollowed out at the very thought. She was not used to being alone in the land of dreams. Ever since her magical talents had surfaced, she had been accompanied by her spirit guide, who had always protected her through the ever-changing terrain. It felt wrong to be without it, to be unable to feel its tug at the corners of her mind, influencing her every move. She felt empty without it – broken. She still felt its tug in dreams, but now it was twisted – broken just like her, the jagged edges cutting as it sought her out.

  
She shook her head and turned her thoughts to the task at hand. She had no time to wallow in what had happened, to grieve what had been done. Naoise had a demon to kill and she’d be damned if she let anything get in her way.

*~*~*~*

“You are a true mage, unmatched by the charlatans in the circle, whose understanding is so primitive, so overshadowed by fear, that they can only hope to gaze upon the power you possess!” Came the joyous exclamations of Mouse.

  
 Naoise ran her hands through her hair and brushed the unruly grey curls from her face as she caught her breath. She had sustained burns from the rage demon and her skin had melted like wax in clumps of scar tissue across her face and arms. It would be fine once she woke, it only hurt now because she thought it should. 

  
 She knew she shouldn’t have received such serious injuries against a rage demon, but she had struggled to keep her anger at bay. The memories of her darkspawn ravaged home and the countless beatings she had received during confinement burned so brightly inside her that the rage demon had easily fed from it, using it to regain its strength. Mouse had stoked the flames purposely, that Naoise was certain of. She wondered how many mages had fallen victim to his stories of oppression that mirrored their own so clearly, how many had their fear and anger turned against them in such a calculating manner that when they realised it, it had been too late.

  
Naoise had known what Mouse was doing from the start and still she was unable to keep her mind blank. She had been taught better than that, but she had been taught in a life unmarred by trauma.

  
She had revelled in that fight. She had become drunk on the adrenaline and the fear that comes from knowing that any mistake could be your last. She had fought recklessly and ignored every opening she had to end it once and for all, too afraid to let go of the feeling that pumped through every vein in her body and caused her heart to soar. She had felt alive.  

  
It had been a long time since Naoise had felt alive. She hadn’t felt alive since before the first darkspawn attack on the Hold, when the life she lived before ended and had become one bloody battle after another; a helpless witness to the never-ending slaughter of everyone she held dear. She hadn’t felt alive when she’d left home and wandered the Lowlands in search of help. She had simply embodied her quest, becoming a vessel for her beliefs and her beliefs alone. And she certainly hadn’t felt alive in the circle, where she was forever haunted by Greaves’ face: The beatings, the isolation, the days without food…

Then she had been nothing but a symbol of power to Greaves; a way to prove his authority as a templar, the fact that her life had rested in his hands and he could have easily ended it if he so desired – a fact he had reminded her of tirelessly.

  
“I could kill you, you know,” he would say as he placed a hand around her throat. “I could crush your windpipe and you’d be helpless against me. You could scream and struggle but it would be pointless. No one would hear you and no one would come to save you.

  
She’d stare blankly at the wall behind him as she focused on her breathing; in and out. In and out. 

  
He never liked that. he always got angry when she didn’t acknowledge him. He liked the reaction, liked the feeling of causing fear and knowing he held the power to do it. His casual smile would morph into a grotesque glare and he’d _make sure_ he got the reaction he desired. 

Head slammed against the wall. Food thrown among the muck of the dungeon floors. Bits of crumbling stone lobbed as missiles. 

  
But he got no screams, he was offered no pleads.

  
Naoise couldn’t scream; she couldn’t plead. Her mouth would slacken like a corpse newly claimed by death but no sound would come.

  
It unhinged him, she could see it. She could see it in his smile which became tighter each time he visited her, in the veins on his forehead that throbbed as he enacted each new brand of torture and in the torture itself, which had become more deranged, more sophisticated as his resentment grew. 

  
For weeks he had persisted, with his failed efforts marking Naoise’s body, held together only by the magic of her spirit guide. He had persisted until he broke her completely. 

  
He’d appeared to guard her cell as usual and as he always did, he’d opened the cell door and locked it behind him. Naoise had lain in the corner of the cell, the mouldy blankets wrapped tightly around her as she shivered violently. She hadn’t recovered from his last attack and the brutality marked her still in the form of a burn scar that ravaged her right arm, spanning from her shoulder to just above her elbow. The skin was the colour of bone, the colour of infection and the fever had rendered Naoise delusional.

  
She hadn’t dared to use her magic to heal it. She had done that once before to heal a cut he’d left on her and when he’d seen it, he crushed the bones in her hand. And though she didn’t want to admit it, she was too weak to use her magic.

  
“Nice,” he had said when he asked her to reveal the burn, his voice approving as he admired his handiwork. “You know,” he’d added in a jovial tone, “A group of templars left to hunt an apostate today – a brat of a child sure, but no less dangerous for it. Which means I have been left to guard you and sadly, there is no one here to relieve me from my shift. Which means I can make you bleed as much as I want.”

  
Naoise didn’t reply. She'd stared at the wall behind him as the world lurched and undid itself in her wake. Her head had started to nod and her eyes slid closed as the world began to darken around her.

  
Of all the insults she could’ve dealt him, that had been the biggest blow.

  
She was dragged to her feet while the world rushed to fill her senses as he slapped her across the face. He beat her again and again. Until his fists were bloody and Naoise lay crumpled on the floor. Until there was so much blood that it seemed impossible that it had come from only one person. Until Naoise was drowning in the pain, submerged in a sea of blood so thick that she swore it was bleeding from the walls and the ceilings above her, filling her lungs until she couldn’t breathe. 

  
She prayed to the Gods, over and over until finally, her pleads breached the confines of her mouth. 

  
It was only a whisper, more the impression of speech than speech itself. And yet he had heard it, that whispered plea, the one thing he had strived for.

  
“Help…”


	4. Astray

Naoise never wanted to feel like that again, to feel her life slip away before her eyes at the whim of another person. She didn’t want to persevere under the templars, didn’t want to spend each day in pain, in fear of pain or in fear of the lack of pain for surely that meant more pain was to follow. She wanted to find what she came for but most of all she wanted out.

But she had no way out. Mages had escaped – sure, but none had managed to stay free. The mage Greaves had told her of had escaped twice since then and each time he was caught in days. And he was one of the lucky ones. Few managed to even set foot outside the circle in the first place.

She needed power, something to give her an advantage against the templars, something that would help her stay free if she escaped. And so, instead of turning on Mouse, she smiled at his honeyed words.

“You will rule over them with your strength one day and they will see the meaning of true power!” continued Mouse. “You will be unstoppable, a force of nature. In you they’ll see that magic is something to be praised! And when you are, I hope you remember my help.”

Naoise took the bait. “What do you mean?”

“My time has passed, I lost but you could give me another chance. If you let me, I could live again.”

“But how?” she enquired.

“All you have to do,” Mouse said slowly, “Is to want to let me in.”

“And what will you give me for it?” asked Naoise. “It’s a big sacrifice after all, letting you in... I think I'd deserve something in return.”

Mouse’s mournful expression twisted into a wicked smile, revealing rows of teeth that should not have been able to fit in his mouth. Spirits never could capture humans just right.

“You’re a clever one aren’t you,” he said with a hint of approval. “What is it you have in mind?”

“Blood magic.” Stated Naoise. “Teach me how.”

His smile grew wider and revealed the endless abyss of teeth.

That can be done,” he said with a smile, like a predator salivating at the sight of its prey. “Open your mind to me and I’ll teach you everything you want to know.”

Naoise closed her eyes as she began the incantations under her breath. She had held a spirit before and she could do it again. But this one she would not keep. Once she had what she needed she would cast it out like any spirit guide. She had never performed the ritual herself, but she had studied it long enough to be certain she could manage it.  
But for now, her chest would feel hollow no more.

*~*~*~*  
“ _Help…_ ”

The gentle tug at the corners of her mind evolved into a pull so strong that it wrenched her sentience from her grasp, pushing her back into the dark corners that lay far beyond the realm of consciousness…

She woke as she had passed out: in a sea of blood. But this time, she was certain it wasn’t just her blood.

Greaves lay in a heap in the centre of the room, or at least she thought it was Greaves. It was hard to tell, he was so mangled that she struggled to make out if the cluster of ligaments and flesh was human at all.

Her first thought was relief. Her second was fear.

Greaves had told her what happened to mages that rebelled against the circle, about the soulless drones that worked for the templars, cut off from their magic so that they could not pose a threat to others. His nose scrunched up with distaste whenever he mentioned them. Their lack of fear both bored and unnerved him.

If she killed a templar, she’d become one of them, one of the tranquil. She’d never be able to leave then – she wouldn’t even want to leave, for the tranquil want for nothing. She would be blind to the corruption of the circle, blind to the abuse she was subjected to. She’d spend every waking hour as nothing more than a spectre of these halls, tending to the templars every need. And then she’d die; a willing prisoner. A life without hearing the birds sing or the whistling of the wind. Where the feeling of the sun against her skin would feel like a memory belonging to someone else.

She looked over at Greaves crumpled body. He looked so powerless, so weak, so pathetic. This man had been the bane of her life for a long month, marking each day with terror and pain. She wanted him to die, wanted him to feel what she had felt and the hatred inside her burned so fervently that it scared her. She had never felt such hatred towards another human being before, never wished for the death of another. It sickened her, that even in this state he could affect her so much.

She thought back to her home, to the reason she had boarded that boat at Calenhad Lake so long ago. They needed her help and she would not let revenge get in the way of that, no matter how much she wanted to. She would not let Greaves last act on earth be to destroy her. She would not give him that privilege.

She repressed a frustrated scream and steeled herself as she took deep breaths to clear her mind. She closed her eyes and reached into the corners of her mind, following that ever-present feeling of its pull on her consciousness. She grabbed for it, pulling its power to the forefront of her mind and channelled every ounce of power she had into a healing spell. Her guide had saved her life, now it was time she made something of it.

The spell surrounded Greaves as it knitted flesh together and clotted blood. She couldn’t heal him completely, the wounds were too severe, but she could keep him alive until backup came. She unhooked the hipflask from his side and took a swig, almost crying in relief at the crisp taste of water.

It was a day before his absence was noted – or at least Naoise thought it was a day. It was hard to tell in the dungeons, with no light to guide her. Peters appeared, presumably to reprimand him for being late for his rounds when she stopped in her tracks, her mouth agape at the sight.

Naoise couldn’t blame her. It was grotesque. The floor was splattered with dried puddles of blood. Naoise was covered in it too, her hair hanged around her face in bloodied clumps and her broken nose was caked in dried blood. Her left eye was swollen shut but compared to Greaves, she looked like she had been carved in the image of perfection.

A couple of his teeth lay scattered on the floor and his arm lay in a sharp angle impossible to achieve naturally. His face was indistinguishable through the dried blood and scabs that Naoise suspected protected burns. His body looked like it had been ravaged by an animal and that was after the healing spell.

Peters screamed at the sight and ran for help. She returned with both Irving and Greagoir in tow and Naoise watched as Greagoir struggled to open the locks.

“The blasted thing is stuck!” he roared as he shook the door so viciously that the noise echoed throughout the dungeons.

“Calm down, it will only make it more difficult,” croaked Irving as he gasped for breath. 

“Calm Down?” Bellowed Greagoir, “That creature has one of my men and you expect me to calm down?”

“I’ll get it,” said Irving, as he took the picks from Greagoir’s shaking hands. He screwed up his face in concentration as his bushy eyebrows obscured his eyes. He worked methodically as Greagoir paced behind him.

Naoise struggled to get to her feet like a new-born lamb and when she had steadied herself on the wall, she limped towards Greaves.

“Stand back!” Commanded Greagoir. He unsheathed his sword and slid it through the bars so that it pointed at her. “Take one step towards him and we’ll be forced to take action.”

Naoise hesitated before she knelt beside Greaves, unhooked the keychain from his belt with clumsy fingers and lobbed them through the bars of the cage before she retreated to the corner of the cell.

As Greagoir ducked, Peters caught the keys and handed them to Irving.

The cell door swung open with a screech that pierced Naoise’s skull.

Peters rushed to Greaves’ side and checked his pulse. With a sigh of relief, she proclaimed “He’s still alive.”

“No thanks to you,” snarled Greagoir as he glared at Naoise. “Irving, do something!”

“A gift when its useful, a curse when it’s not,” mumbled Irving under his breath. “Greagoir, get Wynne and gather lyrium from the stockroom.”

“But-“ began Greagoir, gesticulating wildly. “The girl!”

“I trust you know to stay where you are,” said Irving as he turned to face Naoise.

She nodded and pulled the mouldy blanket around her as she sank deeper into the stale hay.

“But-“

“Peters and I have the situation handled – go.” Greagoir sighed and left the cell, his footsteps echoing on the flagstones.

“He never was good with blood,” chuckled Irving and Peters smiled nervously. “Now, you guard the girl and I’ll start patching up Greaves."

Peters stood over Naoise with a stern frown offset by the concerned glances she shot at Greaves. Naoise watched as Irving muttered healing incantations, the soft glow of magic filling the cell. Colour returned to Greaves face and replaced the grey sheen that made him look waxen.

Greagoir bounded down the stairs and entered through the cell door with a woman Naoise presumed was Wynne by his side.

“Any changes?” inquired Greagoir.”

“His wounds were already partially healed. The cuts were too deep to have healed naturally so it had to have been magic. Without that, he certainly would’ve died.”

Naoise’s heart sank.

“But why-“

The room went silent as Greaves let out a ragged gasp. His eyes shot open and he bolted up, wincing at the sudden movement.

“M – M – Monster,” stuttered Greaves as his eyes darted around the room, his arms thrown up to protect himself.

“The boy’s feverish,” said Irving. “Hush child, you’re safe now.”

His eyes caught Naoise’s and his fidgeting stopped. He lunged backwards as he scrambled to get as far away from her as possible.

“Monster!” he cried, pointing a crooked finger towards Naoise.


	5. Mergence

Naoise could feel Mouse’s power merging with her own. He was not the petty spirit he had pretended to be. She had suspected as much but she was unprepared for the sheer amount of power he held and she struggled to keep it from overpowering her. 

  
She thought back to Sigrid’s lessons as she focused to keep control of her mind;

  
_“The joining of a soul bond is a compromise of wills. To keep it from overpowering you, you must focus on the trait of the spirit in its purest form, willing it to take on that shape while also understanding that it’s still inherently dangerous without letting your fear corrupt it.”_

  
Naoise wasn’t sure what trait Mouse personified. It had drawn out her anger, sure, but that had been at the command of the rage demon. And the power Mouse held hinted at a creature far more sophisticated and one driven by far more complicated motives. It could be a desire demon –  after all it was trying to tempt her, but Naoise’s instinct told her it was something else entirely. A Pride Demon.

   
If she was wrong, she would be unable to control it – she could will a spirit into a purer aspect of a trait, but not change it’s nature entirely. Her mind would be ravaged and her body slain. But what choice did she have? Passing her Harrowing only removed the threat of tranquillity, she would still be a prisoner. She needed this, needed the power to gain her freedom.

  
Naoise focused on controlling her emotions and tried to embody the certainty that she had felt the first time she had taken part in such a ritual. She had only been nine, but she'd had Sigrid to guide her and the insurance that the Hold spirits, shaped by generations of Avvar, would not become corrupted. She had none of that now. 

  
Wisdom. To grasp and use knowledge; To apply what you have while understanding what you lack. To be confident in your own abilities while seeking the knowledge of others. Naoise focused on it,  shaping the spirit as she wished. The spirit stopped its struggle. it was merging with her, it was working!

  
She was nearly through with the incantations; soon she would have what she –

  
Music rang in Naoise’s ears. If it could even be called music. It was at once so low she could feel the thrumming beat reverberate in her bones and so shrill that it pierced through her skull. It was both beautiful and grotesque, delicate and rough, mournful and joyous. She wanted it to end; she didn’t want to live without it.

  
Her incantations stopped. Any control she had held over Mouse wavered as she felt its power leave her. 

  
Naoise opened her eyes as the smell of rot permeated through the air. Black clouds of smoke crashed over her like a tidal wave and when it subsided, a lone figure remained.  
It was a creature comprised of a singed rotting carcass held together by smoke and armed with teeth that covered it like cancerous growths. It was a creature so foreign and yet so familiar to Naoise that she was filled with both joy and grief.

  
Ulevalla.

  
She pounced at Mouse, teeth bared as mouse dropped its façade, revealing a pride demon. They engaged in a bloody battle of teeth and claws before Mouse fled from the fight. Ulevalla didn't follow, she didn’t need to.

 

*~*~*~*

 

She was an Abomination, they said – a danger to others, a monster.

  
Naoise was joined in her dismal cell by a group of senior enchanters and templars. Peters pinned her down while she screamed and thrashed as the other templars dulled her magic so that she could not reach for it.

  
“Please,” she cried, _“please!”_ Her voice cracked as she screamed and she dissolved into tears as her breath caught on gasping sobs.

  
She could hear the enchanters chanting and each syllable struck her like a knife in the heart. They were nearly finished – she had no time. Naoise reached for her magic, scrambling for any semblance of power, any scrap or wisp that she could use to set her spirit guide free. She started the rite, one Sigrid had drilled into her head for weeks in preparation for what would’ve been her separation ritual, that would’ve finally marked her as a fully-fledged mage. 

  
It was pointless reciting it – she knew that. She had no offering, no lyrium. But she had no other choice. So she dared to hope and chanted it as loud as she could, until her voice was hoarse and her throat was raw. Until she felt a hand clasp around her mouth.

Even then she tried as she repeated the words in her head, clinging onto each word like a prayer until the enchanters spell pulled her under and her lifelong friend – twice her savour, was severed from her, and corrupted by the fear and ignorance that perverted the minds of those that masqueraded as scholars behind their esteemed titles. Who were so scared of the unknown that they destroyed everything they touched.

  
Greaves got a medal. “For Acts of Valour Under Service to the Chantry”. He had read the inscription to her when he had visited her cell, under the guise of concern for her well-being. He had been too injured to torture her but he didn’t need to. He had savoured her broken expression before he left to enjoy his paid leave of absence.

  
Naoise remained in the dungeons for “observation” until they were certain she no longer posed a risk. Peters was tasked with watching her and she did so with a stern glare, dulling her magic at the slightest provocation. But she never struck her. She never goaded her or deprived her of her meals and so Naoise grew to feel relieved in her presence, almost thankful to her. 

  
Each night Naoise reached for the remnants of her spirit guide in the land of dreams and each day, she whispered rite after rite as she wrapped up in her mouldy blankets, her face turned to the wall to avoid detection from Peters as she focused on pouring her magic into the wisp, coaxing it until it grew in power.

  
Irving may have been the one that severed her spirit guide but Naoise was the one that damned it


	6. Debt

“Five minutes without me and you sell yourself to a demon,” observed Ulevalla dryly as her many grey eyes fixed on Naoise. If she could roll them she would.

  
Naoise had never gotten used to seeing Ulevalla like this. It felt wrong for Ulevalla to exist apart from her, to be severed from her like a dismembered limb and yet be so very much alive. It was almost grotesque how her very existence seemed to rebel against the natural order of the world, against everything Naoise knew. 

  
That’s if she could even call Ulevalla “alive”. It was like she had been frozen in a permanent state of decay, sealed in a liminal space between life and death – somehow both marked and yet untouched by both, with her body resembling the remains of a fire in which the crumbling wood was little more than charcoal and the air was all the colder for the loss.

  
Ulevalla’s presence always made her feel cold now, like an icy shock that struck every nerve in her body and froze the marrow in her bones. Before Ulevalla had been bright, she had burned with a fire that filled Naoise with the confidence that she could take on the entire world. Now she was a match whose flame had long burned out. Gods Naoise missed the warmth…

 “I did not sell myself, I made a deal – one that you ruined,” shot back Naoise, her voice haughty. “Why are you here?”

Ulevalla let out a cruel laugh. “I’m your protector am I not? I did my job – you should learn from my example. After all, time is running out – for you and your family.” Naoise winced.

“Protected me? you’ve damned me to the circle,” she cried.

“As you did to me,” replied Ulevalla lightly. “As I recall it was me that paid the price for you.”

Naoise opened her mouth to protest but no words came. She was right after all, Ulevalla had paid the price. She had saved her life and yet the circle had demanded her execution. Irving had told her joyously with what was meant to be a comforting hand on her shoulder that they had successfully “saved” her from the iron grasp of a demon. She had nodded and gritted her teeth, biting back every scream, every grief-stricken cry of protest that festered inside her, demanding to be made heard.

But she’d been too scared, scared of what would happen to her if she had protested and so she had defiled her friend’s sacrifice and thanked Irving. _Thanked him_.

Naoise had escaped with her life, her autonomy. She didn’t know what strings Irving had pulled but she knew she owed him for keeping her from becoming tranquil. She seethed at the thought of owing Irving anything. 

“You know, I’m simply offended that you threw yourself at the first demon you could find instead of coming to me.” continued Ulevalla, blasé. 

“I see you’re self-aware,” spat Naoise. “I had everything under control,” she added lamely.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” asked Ulevalla with a patronising tone. Naoise gritted her teeth.

“As a big scary evil demon –  very astutely observed by the way, you truly are a wonder – I can in fact teach you the horrific and macabre art of blood magic that will surely cause the Maker’s precious bride to weep! All you have to do, is to want to let me in.” her voice took on a mock whisper, her glee evident.

“You were watching me!” accused Naoise.

“They really do grow up so fast,” cooed Ulevalla as the smoke surrounding her gutted carcass floated almost serenely – like candle-smoke reaching to meet the Gods. “I admire your righteous indignation as much as the next person but you’re not in a position to afford such luxuries.”

Naoise sighed, exasperated. She could almost feel the executioner’s noose growing tighter around her neck. If she was going to act, it had to be now.

“Maybe, but I can’t afford what you ask,” replied Naoise.

“Ask? What have I asked of you so far? Selfish girl. You think I wish to wear your skin like that barbarous, filthy little creature you trusted so eagerly?” The smoke surrounded Ulevalla savagely, as if she was trying to rub off an unpleasant sensation. It shuddered, as if she was taking a deep breath and calmed as she composed herself, “I ask only for one thing; a promise.”

Naoise blinked. There was a myriad of things she expected Ulevalla to ask of her, revenge maybe, or to possess her but a promise?”

“A promise to what?” Asked Naoise, her brows furrowed.

“That you will do what I ask of you when I ask it,” replied Ulevalla.

“What’s the catch?” 

“There is none. No binding agreement or blood ritual, I simply ask for your word that you will aid me when I need you… please.”

Naoise stared, her mouth agape. It had only been for a moment but Naoise had seen the spark, a flash of her old friend. The one that had taught her how to use her magic, had made her feel special and had looked out for her the way her mother never had. Ulevalla had once been glorious and now she was the remnants of a bygone dynasty. This was how Naoise had repaid her for her kindness.

“Okay,” said Naoise quietly. “I guess I owe you that much.”

“Good,” said Ulevalla, her voice resolute. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”

The smoke surrounded Naoise and filled her lungs with the thick smog. She choked as she felt Ulevalla’s magic seep into her bones and her eyes burned as the smoke shrouded her view.

Wake up now little one, rang Ulevalla’s voice in her head. I kept my promise, now you must keep yours.  
*~*~*~* 

Naoise woke shivering on the stone floor of the Harrowing Chamber. She opened her bleary eyes to find Cullen standing over her, his sword encased in his shaking hands.

“Are you you?” asked Cullen. 

“I’m me,” Naoise reassured. 

Cullen sheathed his sword and offered her a hand up. She declined and scrambled to her feet as she struggled to keep her balance.

“You did it child,” congratulated Irving as he patted her on the back, which made Naoise feel like she was going to tip over. “Peters, Cullen, see to it that Amell makes it to her dorm, she’s been through an ordeal.” 

Greagoir looked as if he wanted to argue with Irving for ordering his templars but he simply said; “I trust you understand that you are not to breathe a word of what took place here tonight to any of the other apprentices?”

Naoise simply nodded.

She had no interest in telling anyone – she had what she wanted, could feel the newfound knowledge coursing through her. Naoise had the power of blood magic, and she was going to be free. 


End file.
